A Seam To Hem Me In
by amor-remanet
Summary: If only he could carve his grace out every night." Fallen!Cas fic, Cas/Dean. One-shot.


Castiel sits on the edge of a motel bed and feels nothing. Not the chill from outside, nor Dean's aggravation with the broken heating unit; not the pain from the gash on his thigh, nor the warmth of Jimmy's blood. His clothes are superfluous and seem to swim around him without engaging any physical senses.

Even looking down at them, he doesn't feel Dean's hands working on the wound; as if dosed with a human numbing agent, Castiel is only aware that they're present, and that they work with skill. He washes it with warm water and something to prevent infection, but Castiel is aware of it but barely. The dull, throbbing ache in his chest radiates to everywhere else and drowns it out. It's almost better than a liquor store, Cas thinks, when it comes to lessening pain's other effects on him. If only he could carve his grace out every night.

Of course, that would require Sam and Dean being cornered and outnumbered by demons every night. And Castiel could have only done this once.

"Bend your leg," Dean tells him, woodenly, and Castiel obeys. For a moment, Dean's serious, intent expression grows perplexed: "You sure you don't want something before I do this?"

Castiel shakes his head. "I'm fine."

Dean frowns, and sighs, but sets to work regardless, threading a needle with dental floss and once more, running his fingers down the red, angry length of exposed flesh. As if afraid of ruining something precious, he looks up at Castiel before starting; Castiel nods, by way of telling him that it will be all right. While Cas can't be sure at all, he needs to believe it just as much — if not more than — Dean. He gasps and winces, when the needle first goes through his skin.

"Are you _sure_ you don't want anything?"

"It's fine," he tells Dean, shaking his head. He has no need to protect himself from pain.

As Dean goes to work, Castiel does not feel the pain any less. Nothing saves him from it, nor does he want to be saved. With each piercing of the skin comes a sharp jolt, a shock the likes of which Castiel hasn't felt before. It feels like knife wounds did before, when Castiel still had his grace — a momentary rush of shock following the impact of the piercings — but then something else follows. Something new, something that chases out the pain, the hurt, the tension in Castiel's muscles. He doesn't mean to do so, but he lets his eyes close as a contented moan slips out.

Castiel opens them again, and turns them toward his leg, just quickly enough to watch Dean kneading his fingers into the muscle. With an unbecoming delicacy and skill, Dean takes the needle through the rest of the wound, closing it and massaging Castiel's leg as he goes. Once he's done, the floss tied up, and the needle chucked away, Dean hesitates a moment, then presses his lips to the middle of Castiel's thigh.

"Cas, you stupid bastard," Dean whispers like a second kiss. "Me and Sam could've gotten out of that scrap fine — why'd you have to yank out your angel juice?"

"I needed you to understand," the angel (now fallen properly, he supposes) explains, his face softening for the first time since they started, even since Sam told him Dean had run from Blue Earth. In a moment of silence, he ponders his words, staring at Dean's fingers on his stitches, Dean's hands wrapping the wound with protective gauze.

Dean wraps Castiel's leg to his satisfaction, and interjects: "What, and being punched in the face, kicked in the nuts, and pinned to a wall wasn't clear enough?"

"I wasn't finished," Castiel informs him flatly. "…I told you, before, how much I've given for you, Dean. And I assumed that you understood. I think I might have been wrong." With a sigh, he nudges himself off the bed. Another twinge of pain accompanies kneeling on the floor beside Dean, but, as he trails his fingers down Dean's cheek, Castiel feels the same wave of warm relief.

He turns his head, leans in, applies his lips to Dean's adam's apple. "I'm not Heaven's — none of me is, anymore." Briefly, Cas flicks his tongue against Dean's skin, and the familiar layer of sweat. He brushes his teeth along Dean's neck. "Everything I had, I've given to you, or for you."

Cas pauses. He stares into Dean's eyes. Without trying, he sees Dean's pain, his history of pain, the pain he feels now — and this is perplexing. Can some trace of grace still be there, letting Cas read Dean as well as he did before? Or is this the familiarity that other humans have with their lovers? It is of no import, he supposes; like a dehydrated man before a spring of water, Castiel kisses Dean's lips.

Barely leaving them to breathe, Cas whispers, "Promise me you're staying in this fight."

Dean kisses him like a prayer.


End file.
